


Tonight We Fly

by tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Broomstick Maker Harry Potter, Broomstick Reviewer Draco Malfoy, Career Ending Injuries, Charity Fundraiser, Eyepatch, Flying, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Insults Trading, Leather, Light Angst, Locker Room, M/M, Non-graphic injuries, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pining Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch, Quidditch Matches, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Secondary Theme: Book Fair, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: It's been ten years since they left school, and Harry Potter is perfectly happy with his successful broom-making business, Wyvern and Swift.The only thing that annoys him is that Draco Malfoy is back from America, with a tan and long hair and that eyepatch that definitely doesn't make him look like a sexy pirate.Malfoy is always trying to get under Harry's skin—and if he thinks asking Harry on a date is going to unsettle Harry before they play rival Seekers in the big charity Quidditch game...well, he'd be right.Featuring our favourite oblivious wizard, some shower cubicle action, and Harry leaving his leather gloves on.





	Tonight We Fly

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[1](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/161779.html?thread=5176819#t5176819):  
**Career Theme:** Broomstick Maker  
**Secondary Theme:** Book Fair - Which Broomstick?  
**Additions:** Broomstick puns | Quidditch seeker challenges | Insult trading  
**Scenario:** Harry is a broomstick maker. Draco is a broomstick tester/reviewer who gives feedback on comfort level, speed and aesthetics for Which Broomstick? a periodically released magazine about broomsticks. Draco makes Harry's life difficult. Harry likes difficult things.
> 
> Thank you for this delicious prompt, phoenixacid, and for your superb modding duties.
> 
> This fic ran away with me a bit, but I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you to my alphas and betas, D, O, and Q, for talking me through the writing process, endless cheerleading, and being the best support network I could ever have hoped for. Draco in an eyepatch is for all of you - use him well!
> 
> (The title of this fic comes from [this song of the same name](https://youtu.be/cnY9ea_q3nI) by The Divine Comedy (which has a major 90s Drarry vibe if you'd like to check it out).

_The Opaleye is the latest release from feted newcomer to the luxury broom market, Wyvern and Swift. _

_This is not a broom for the shy, retiring types among us—your humble reviewer included! With its distinctive bleached wood frame, glittery tail twigs, and the pearlescent finish on the sealant, you certainly won't have any trouble finding this little number in a crowded broompark._

_And once you've experienced the ergonomic comfort of the detachable postbox-red moulded seat (made from genuine shed-dragonhide harvested humanely from a reserve in Romania—let it never be said that Harry Potter doesn't do things properly!), you could be forgiven for thinking that you've found yourself the perfect city broom for the stylish witch or wizard in your life. _

_Think again! This broom looks like a dream, but it doesn't ride like one._

_For your morning commute into Diagon, this broom might seem like a good option. It's zippy, fast on the uptake and neat to manoeuvre. Try maintaining a bit of speed at height, however, and the broom's failings start to show._

_There's a delicacy to the heft of the Opaleye that really tells against it when you need a smooth, fast trip over long distances. Yes, the use of linden for the frame ensures that the broom is light and easy to carry, but it can't hold its path against any wind resistance. Your reviewer tested it under a variety of weather conditions, and found it to be jumpy and choppy in anything above a gentle breeze. _

_What's more, the sealant (personally spelled to shimmer the exact shade of the eyes of the broom's dragon namesake by the proprietor—master broommaker and Boy Who Lived to Fly Again, Harry Potter) becomes extra slippery in wet conditions—not ideal for more nervous flyers._

_Even Mr Potter would agree that this reviewer has an exceptional seat (if he's reading this, I'd be happy to give him some one-on-one before the IAQ annual charity match!), but the Opaleye managed to cause even such a seasoned rider as my good self to take a wobble in a dive—the nose of the broom has a mind of its own, it seems._

_And don't think that you can knock this broom about—linden is easily bruised, and you might find some dents appear with moderate use. For the price point, I would have expected more longevity and versatility. _

_There's a beauty and an elegance to this broom, of course. The wood used lends itself very well to Mr Potter's skill at carving, and I was enchanted by the lifelike scales and elaborate horns that serve as handles. _

_But Mr Potter seems to have sacrificed the broom's versatility at the altar of his aesthetic—the expression 'style over substance' comes to mind._

_This broom bears all the hallmarks of Potter's exceptional skill in construction and eye for detail, but it can't be considered a return to the form of Wyvern's first (and best) creation, the Horntail. _

_In conclusion: pretty but timid, fairly one-dimensional. Strictly for city wix!_

_Reviewer: Draco Malfoy for Which Broomstick?_

_I take a seat so you don't have to!_

* * *

It was very, very early in the morning, so it took Harry a minute to realise that he was actually making a growling noise as he finished reading the review of his latest creation. He chucked the magazine blindly onto his bedside cabinet, then heard an ominous tinkling sound that suggested his glasses had been already occupying that particular space. It did not improve his mood.

Harry didn't think it was a coincidence that someone had owled a proof copy of this quarter's edition of _Which Broomstick?_ directly to him. In fact, the suspiciously haughty owl had woken him just before six in the morning, with a loud clattering of beak on bedroom window glass, accompanied by a baleful expression at Harry's woeful owl treat selection. 

There was a note attached, simply reading "Potter—see page 17". Though there was no signature, Harry had a good idea of the provenance of the note, considering that it was written on creamy paper so heavy and luxurious that it almost stood up by itself, and the handwriting (scribbled languidly in silky black ink) managed to convey an impression of both disdain and mockery. Harry hadn't ever expected that a one-line note could be so eloquently evocative of its sender, but Malfoy always _had_ been one for making a strong impression.

Harry lay in bed, gritty-eyed and blinking, and debated just shooting an _Incendio_ at the magazine, and letting that be the end of it. But Malfoy—damn him!—always knew just how to get under Harry's skin, and Harry could _feel_ it even now, eleven years out of Hogwarts and after spending half his life refining his craft and building his own business. No matter what, Malfoy was always going to reawaken that itchy feeling of restless unease within Harry. 

Yes, Harry decided, it was definitely no accident that Malfoy had sent the magazine over today of all days. He had even mentioned the bloody International Association of Quidditch charity fundraiser in the review, for fuck's sake, and if Harry had wanted to be in top form for the match that afternoon, then being woken before dawn by Britain's snootiest owl was not the way to go about it. It was a taunt if ever Harry had seen one, and particularly annoying because Harry really, really wanted to bloody well beat Malfoy today. 

The match was an annual thing, sponsored by _Which Broomstick?_, and in its tenth year now. Teams were made up of ex-pro players, industry professionals, and a motley crew of sports journalists, match commentators, and Wizarding celebrities—if you were even vaguely well-known and had ever even touched a broom, the magazine tried to recruit you. Harry Potter had been a bit of a coup for them—Saviour of the Wizarding World, ex-Gryffindor Seeker, and creator of the Vipertooth, the broom that the _Which Broomstick?_ reviewer before Malfoy called "the finest racing broom I have ever had the privilege to fly". The editor of _Which Broomstick?_, Aisling Crean, had been asking Harry to play Seeker ever since the inaugural exhibition game, which had been set up as a morale-boosting exercise in those unsettled times after Voldemort's death.

Harry had been tempted, especially since all the funds raised were to be donated towards the Hogwarts rebuilding fund, but he had declined. It didn't seem right, back then, to be gadding about on brooms with his grinning mug in the paper. In fact, it was only when Harry had set up Wyvern and Swift four years ago, after finishing his apprenticeship at the Nimbus Broom Company (under Mr Whitehorn himself), that he agreed to take part. 

Ron, ever the pragmatist, and now co-director of WWW with George, told him he'd be mental to turn down that level of free publicity for Wyvern and Swift. It was also Ron's idea that Harry offer the magazine a hefty discount on a bulk buy of Vipertooth racing brooms for the teams. It meant that Harry's product was front and centre of every photo in the extensive news coverage that followed each annual match. It also meant that Harry cracked the American market. The growing fanbase of Quidditch enthusiasts in the US went crazy for hand-carved British brooms, especially with Harry Potter's name attached to the company. He couldn't produce new Vipertooths fast enough for all the owl-orders that flooded in after the match was aired internationally.

Primarily, though, it was because of Draco bloody Malfoy, Harry reflected glumly. Draco bloody Malfoy with his improbably large American fanbase, and his ridiculously nice arse perched on Harry's broom. Harry hated him.

It wasn't even as though Malfoy was that bad, really. Actually, he seemed to be far less of a dick than Harry had expected. It's just that he was _supposed_ to be less of a dick somewhere far away from Harry, is all, like he had been for the first six years after the war. He wasn't supposed to be back in England, and friends with Harry's friends, and laughing at Harry's jokes, and reviewing Harry's _brooms_, and making snide comments about his seat, for fuck's sake.

Malfoy had left Britain almost immediately after his trial, though not before calling around to Harry in person to thank him, to apologise, to confirm his Life Debt (which Harry was quick to dismiss)—basically, to do many things that were totally out of character for the bright, sneering boy he had always been in Harry's eyes. 

Malfoy had been so easy to pity, that day. He was bruised-looking around the eyes, with lines of tension tightening up the bitten red fragility of his mouth. He was pale, and faded, and the stiltedness of his manner read very much like fear when he put a hand out to Harry on his departure. Harry had gladly shaken it, then—Malfoy was still Malfoy, but Harry could be the bigger person here. He _would_ be the bigger person. 

And he _was_ the bigger person, for ages. He wished Malfoy well in America, and hoped that he would find the peace he needed (and maybe learn not to be such a bigoted twat while he was at it). And he _never_ rolled his eyes whenever Hermione left the pub early to make an international Floo call to Malfoy as part of his probation conditions, to beat the time difference between them and Arizona. And if Harry wasn't being the bigger person, then Hermione being Malfoy's assigned Auror would have set his teeth right on edge, because Hermione _hated_ Malfoy, just like they all did. Except all of a sudden it seemed that she didn't anymore, if the peals of laughter coming from the living room Floo were anything to go by. And instead of rolling her eyes fondly whenever Harry mentioned what a twat Malfoy had been—which wasn't even that _often_, it was _hardly ever_, in fact—she started looking viciously thoughtful and disapproving. Neither expression had ever boded well for Harry for in the past, so he had mostly stopped mentioning Malfoy at all after a while, but it just meant that the itchy, unsettling feeling stuck around a bit, because before, he had always been able to find out what Malfoy was up to from Hermione, but now he'd have had to go out of his way to _ask_ and he didn't want Hermione wondering why he cared. Because he didn't, of course. It was just...familiar, being idly curious about Malfoy, being _aware_ of him. It was just odd, not having him around.

But Harry continued to be the bigger person about Malfoy, even when Malfoy's probation year ended and _Hermione continued to Floo him every week_ despite no longer being officially required to do so. And he was positively thrilled for Malfoy when Hermione told them about Malfoy being recruited onto the Flagstaff Fleet Flyers, swiftly and (probably) ruthlessly going from reserve, to full Seeker, to charismatic star of the All-American Quidditch League. And Harry could have flown for a living, of course, he'd had loads of interest from the British and Irish teams after he left school, but he hadn't wanted all that attention and fawning and fakery that came with it. Harry just wanted to work with brooms, he wanted to create. And since when was Quidditch so bloody popular in America, anyway?

Yes, Harry was perfectly fine taking the high moral ground when it came to stupid Malfoy and his stupidly stellar flying career, and over the next few years he got used to seeing Malfoy in the sports pages, and sometimes in the gossip columns. Like the time he had been papped snogging the very famous, very _male_ lead singer of The Runespoors (and they were Harry's favourite band, so it was pretty fucking annoying that when he listened to them now, he couldn't help but conjure up the picture, a monumentally unsettling loop of Malfoy's electric smile and Malfoy's hands tangled in the guy's hair as he pulled him back in for more). That was fine though, it wasn't as though Harry was homophobic or anything. That would be a bit hypocritical after all, only Harry didn't believe in flaunting things, he just liked to keep things like that private. But obviously being the bigger person meant acknowledging that it was probably really important when Malfoy officially came out as bi—Hermione certainly approved, said representation was _so_ important, so it was really easy to get her to help with drafting a speech when Harry decided (coincidentally and absolutely nothing to do with Malfoy) to publicly come out as gay. See, bigger person.

And ok, so Malfoy was a bit annoying when he posed in just a pair of rainbow-striped underpants for Pride the year he came out, and he was definitely annoying when he came back for visits and ended up joining Harry and his friends for nights out, because apparently he and Hermione were inseparable now. Of course, Harry was glad Malfoy felt comfortable around them all, though some might have thought that snogging the face off Charlie Weasley within about four minutes of being introduced to him was a bit _too_ comfortable. Anyway, everyone was happy and getting on, and Harry had even had a few proper conversations with Malfoy—Harry was deep in his apprenticeship and half the time when he came to the pub he had sawdust in his hair, and the faint aromatic glisten of linseed oil had him leaving smudgy handprints all over his pint glass. Malfoy had _opinions_ about broomcraft (of course he bloody did) and it was nice to chat about work stuff with someone who was actually interested for once, even if the conversations did often end up with them shouting goodnaturedly at each other.

Harry still didn't really like to think about the day they heard about Malfoy's accident, four years ago now—he and Ron had been laughing over sandwiches in the new cafe on Diagon, when Hermione walked in looking like she was going to shake out of her skin, with teartracks scored down her cheeks. She had thrown the copy of the _Prophet_ onto the table between them, rattling the teapot and gumming up the pages with mayonnaise and mustard. Harry had seen the photo of Malfoy on the front, eyes blazing, teeth bared, body tensed over his broom like a weapon waiting to be unleashed in battle, and he had thought with a surety, so bone-deep and chilling that he actually shivered, that Malfoy was dead. 

He had moved to standing, without even realising what he was doing, fingers slick with sandwich grease as he fumbled for the paper. His mouth was moving, silently working over the words, reciting a rosary of guilt and recrimination and horror as he whispered, "Don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead."

Malfoy wasn't dead, though the news coverage couldn't have made more of a fuss of him if he had been. And his injury was pretty horrific, from what Harry could gather (career-ending, it turned out—no matter how well Malfoy flew, he wasn't going to be able to keep up with the pros without the sight in one eye).

And how like Malfoy, to be so determined to catch the Snitch that he managed to crash through the goal post rather than go around it. He had ended up with the Snitch quivering in one hand, and the other hand clapped over the ruined mess of his left eye socket. He'd even insisted on walking off the pitch unassisted that day, his smile blood-filmed but undimmed, his Mark washed with runnels of ichor from where his hand still covered his eye. Harry watched the news clip on repeat (muted so the unsettling gull-cry shrieks of the cheering crowd were obliterated), reassured anew with each viewing that Malfoy was alive, he was alive, if not ok. 

And it wasn't that Harry was frantic, or anything—he barely knew Malfoy anymore, after all. He was just concerned for an old school friend, like anyone would be. Luckily, once Malfoy was out of hospital, Harry could see for himself that Malfoy was fine, even if the Healers hadn't been able to save his sight on that side, because he gave any number of increasingly sentimental interviews to the American news channels, and announced that he would be returning home to take up the post of broomstick reviewer with an esteemed industry publication, and how his grievous injury had really made him reassess his priorities, though he would miss the welcoming American atmosphere of inclusivity and tolerance deeply, and other such guff.

And then he _did_ move back, and was just there, hanging around with Harry's friends all the time, and laughing a lot, and barely even noticing Harry was there too. It was pretty fucking rude of him, Harry thought, to be floating around like a bad smell, and looking weirdly grown up, with his longer hair a distracting fall of sunbleached satin, and his stupid skin all golden and soft-looking. And the eyepatch. Really, Harry thought, an eyepatch? There were so many discreet wizarding prostheses Malfoy could have chosen—he wouldn't have had to go for the full Mad-Eye Moody effect—but no. Malfoy had to go for an eyepatch, a _leather_ eyepatch, worn soft as velvet, pressed like a tongue over the eye socket. The tip of a livid scar sliced out from under it and along the elegant curve of Malfoy's cheekbone, and the patch was secured with brass hardware and a complicated-looking double strap. It should have made him look silly, but somehow...it didn't. He _should_ have looked like a pirate, the Halloween costume kind, but instead he just looked a bit dangerous and cool (not _at all_ sexy, Harry's brain supplied helpfully). 

Unfortunately, and despite Harry's best efforts, the more time he spent around Malfoy, the harder Harry found it to be the bigger person. People were starting to get that wary look, familiar from Sixth Year, whenever Harry mentioned Malfoy. He had only made one _tiny_ critical remark to Ron and Hermione during a Saturday Quidditch game at the Burrow—just idle chit-chat really, he had only said that maybe Malfoy shouldn't be pratting around topless on a broom, showing off all his scars. Hermione had fixed him with an unimpressed glare, and said that maybe _some people_ should learn to take responsibility for their mistakes, and should interrogate their own feelings of guilt and shame about having their past bad behaviour put on display, rather than criticising Malfoy for being able to take ownership of his dark history, and redefine himself. Ron had shrugged a bit and said, "Mate, I have as little desire to see that twat with his kit off as you do. But maybe you should just give it a rest with the staring and brooding. It's no big deal, and it's not fair to single Malfoy out all the time. I don't see you complaining about Charlie being half-naked."

Harry had managed to distract them by saying _no one_ would complain about Charlie being any degree of naked, but their words dug in and burrowed into Harry's brain, waking him in the silent grey pre-dawn to worry over what they meant, along with all the other Malfoy-related things he had to worry about. 

Like the way Malfoy was a really good broomstick reviewer, fair and even-handed and insightful, and reading his articles made Harry feel a bit squirmy inside. 

And like the time Harry was at the bar buying a drink for himself and the very hot Muggle guy he had spent the last hour kissing very thoroughly. Malfoy had sidled up beside him, arms bare and lean, smelling of almonds and warm skin, and had leaned in to Harry and very confidingly told him that he had _great_ taste in men. He then shot a very pointed look at the Muggle (who just happened to be tall and posh and blonde, that was where the similarity ended, and it wasn't as though Harry had a _type_, for fuck's sake) and promptly snagged Harry's vodka and made off with it. And to add insult to injury, as he left, he winked—_winked!_—at Harry. What was that all about?

But the last straw had come last week, when they had been outside in the beer garden of The Green Mage, and Malfoy had been gently taunting Harry about the upcoming IAQ charity game. They had played as opposing Seekers for three years running now, and Malfoy was two-one up for catching the Snitch. He may have needed an adjusted Depth-Perception charm on his remaining eye, but he also had five years of intensive pro flying and hard work behind him. Harry was desperate to beat him this time.

They were sitting facing each other on a bench, and Malfoy was laughing a proper, animated laugh at Harry's (only semi-feigned) exasperation. It was weird, seeing his face like that, so close up, so open, but it was...nice. Harry realised that he liked making Malfoy laugh like that. 

Malfoy fell silent then, and for a second he looked right at Harry, with his one extraordinary silver eye, and Harry wondered where did everyone disappear off to, and when did Malfoy get quite so close?

Malfoy seemed to come to some sort of decision, and though his gaze was steady, his voice was faltering.

"Would you...I mean, sometime, if you like...we could…perhaps we could get a drink, or something?" 

Harry waited, wondering what had Malfoy so worked up, but that seemed to be it, so he gestured with his almost full pint at Malfoy's undrunk Firewhisky and said warily, "But we already got our drinks?"

That snapped Malfoy out of his hesitance, and he rolled his eyes (well, the one that Harry could see anyway) before speaking extra slowly and clearly. 

"You can't be serious, Potter? Okay, perhaps I wasn't clear. What I'm asking is, do you—Harry—want to go for a drink with me—Draco—intentionally, on our own, on a different occasion to this one, seeing as we have indeed, as you so succinctly observed, already gotten our drinks this time."

Harry laughed, shocked into loudness, then blanched as Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

"But..do you mean? You can't mean...you and me? Like a…"

Malfoy moved to standing, fast and supple and savage as some particularly lithe animal, and his face was impassive when he replied. 

"Yes, Potter, _like a..._. Not to worry, though, it was a bad idea. Anyway, I had better be off. Going to get some practice in, make sure I knock you off your broom next week. Enjoy your drink." 

He picked up the glass of Firewhisky and drained it in one hard, angry swallow (and why Harry was even still looking at the tender curve of Malfoy's throat he didn't know) and was gone, stalking through the pub tables, without looking back.

Harry had asked Hermione about it, much later that evening, when he had managed to get far drunker than he had intended to. He had meant to sound jovial, but he must have been tired or something, because when he blurted out, "Why did Malfoy ask me out? I thought he hated me," it only ended up sounding a little bit bleak and plaintive, like he was exposing some tender, hidden part of himself. Like he cared about the answer. 

Hermione looked disappointed, as she stood to Side-Along him home.

"Sometimes, Harry, you just don't get it. Malfoy hasn't hated you since school, and even then...well, I have my suspicions. You two are _friends_, you idiot. Why shouldn't he ask you out?"

Harry spluttered eloquently, and possibly messily (in his defence, he suspected that the last Firewhisky Seamus had given him was a triple). "Malfoy and I aren't _friends_! We hate each other! He's my oldest living enemy! Just because we sometimes chat about brooms, and we both like to fly, and he likes the pancakes at that Muggle cafe too...but we're just being _polite_!"

Hermione had always had a knack for disapproving glares, but after years of friendship with Malfoy her skill at eye-rolling had improved tremendously. 

"You're not at school anymore, Harry. Things don't stay the same forever, you know. You'd probably be happier if you realised that."

* * *

All in all, Harry wasn't feeling exactly tip-top when he walked onto the pitch at three o' clock that afternoon, for the match, in front of fifty thousand screaming Quidditch fans. It was a combination of the rude awakening by owl that morning, coupled with the unsettling feeling raised by Malfoy's lukewarm review of the Opaleye. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. Definitely nothing to do with Malfoy himself, who was already in the sky, whipping his broom around before screeching into a lethal-looking practice dive. Even the familiar heft of his Vipertooth in Harry's hand, the cool slide of the innovative moulded copper frame against his gauntlet, didn't soothe him. He felt heavy, grounded, like the sky could not be his. 

"Harry! You look like a wet weekend!" Ginny shouted at him from above, keeping her seat in the stiff breeze as her broom wheeled and bucked under her. "Get on your broom, knobhead. And smile, for Merlin's sake, give the fans what they came for!"

The crowd roared as Harry pushed off, the throb of it settling in his bloodstream and giving him the boost he needed to do a lap of the pitch. Then Ginny called them over for the team briefing, and Harry could see Lorena Bagman doing the same with Malfoy's team (and going on previous years, the gist of her strategy was probably roughly along the lines of "maim first, Snitch later". Which to be fair was also Ginny's approach).

Then the whistle blast sent them scattering like seeds on the wind, spiralling apart and together again in the old, instinctive dance that Harry knew he could never unlearn. The whip of the wind drove him, the arc of the broom bent to his command. He smiled.

Malfoy was nearby, lazily circling, sharp with alertness, his body moving with the kinetic roll of the broom. He smiled back at Harry, before crouching low and speeding across the pitch, hair streaming like a flag in the wind. Harry watched him go, thinking about Hermione telling him that things were different now. Thinking about how everything had changed all around him, and maybe it was time that Harry noticed that, instead of clinging to the safety of the past. He thought about the crease across Malfoy's nose when he laughed, and the delicacy of the lines around his eyes, a fond legacy of years of smiling, and squinting into the sun. Then Malfoy whooped back at him, the bright joyous sound ringing clear above the whistle of the wind. 

And Harry followed, simply because he _could_.

It was almost like a game, flying with (against! Harry hastily reminded himself) Malfoy. He was totally ruthless, and his fancier moves were a masterclass in risk-taking, but he was as prone to distraction as Harry himself, and thus easy to be playful with. Harry was no pro, but he had kept his hand (or rather, his bum) in over the years, and he matched Malfoy loop for loop, dive for dive. 

"You know," Malfoy panted, as he pulled up sharp to face Harry, so they were knee to knee in the air, "This is quite fun. You've improved since last year, Potter."

"Or maybe you've deteriorated, Malfoy? Losing your touch a bit?"

"_Never!_" Malfoy declaimed, nearly knocking Harry sideways. "I'll be the top Seeker until I die!"

Harry rolled his eyes at that, because after all he had been hanging around with Malfoy quite a bit too, maybe the talent for eye-rolling worked by osmosis? 

"Well, we can prove that today, I suppose," he replied. "And, I was thinking about that drink you mentioned...maybe we could get that after the match? Loser buys!"

Malfoy's mouth went thin. "No, thanks. I'm busy, after."

Harry soldiered on. "Next weekend, then? What would suit you?"

Malfoy didn't reply, and Harry saw that his face was wiped clean of any expression. 

"Is it because of what I said in the pub last week? Sorry, Malfoy—that was clumsy of me. I had never thought of you like that—I mean, I have eyes obviously, so I had _thought_ of you...I mean, it's just that we hate each other, you know? With the nose-breaking and the Sectumsempra and the Potter Stinks badges, and all that… It took me by surprise, is all."

Because they were riding high on a buffeting wind, it took Harry a second to realise that Malfoy was vibrating with rage. They were still pressed together at the knee, and Malfoy took both hands off his broom and very slowly knotted his fist into Harry's jersey. He tugged. It was almost gentle, but he stole Harry's balance just enough that it felt precarious.

Malfoy leaned in.

"All of _that_," he hissed, "happened when we were children. Half a lifetime ago! You enormous bellend! We are grownups now—or I am, at least. I work so fucking hard to show...to prove...aargh, what's the point?!"

He came closer again, and all of a sudden his forehead was pressed hard against Harry's, his free hand a feverish weight at the back of Harry's neck, his mouth a whisper away from turning into a kiss. 

The last time Harry had been this close to anyone, it _had_ been for a kiss, and even then it hadn't felt anywhere near as intimate and immediate and _ferocious_ as this.

Malfoy's voice was crisp, ringing with intensity. "You. Are. A. Prick. I don't need your pity date. I mean, look at me, for fuck's sake. So piss off, Potter."

Then he was gone, a scudding tension in his wake, and within five minutes he had caught the Snitch, just to spite Harry, it seemed.

They hit the ground at the same time, and Malfoy pushed right past Harry's outstretched hand to go and accept congratulatory kisses from every bloody player on both teams, it looked like (and on the mouth, too! For fuck's sake). Harry shrugged. May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, he reasoned.

"Malfoy!" His voice carried over the hubbub, and the clatter and zip of camera shutters instantly swung his way. Harry strode forwards to where Malfoy was watching him, warily. "Good game," Harry murmured, and then he slid an arm around the solid heat of Malfoy's lower back and just hauled him in. And Malfoy went where Harry's touch directed him, as pliable as willow, as strong as oak, as beautiful as pale ash. Then Malfoy's mouth was hot and inviting against Harry's, and he tasted wild and ozoney and tart with salt. It was this easy! Harry thought. Until Malfoy was pushing him away, wiping the back of his leather gauntlet over his mouth in disbelief, and the whirr of a hundred cameras reminded Harry that this was not easy at all.

* * *

"Mate."

Harry groaned, and leaned in closer to Ron's comforting warmth. 

"I know."

"In front of the cameras? _Mate_."

"_I know!_"

"So, is this a new thing then?" Ron asked, making a vague yet surprisingly obscene gesture. "This thing with Malfoy? Because we had wondered...well, Hermione had anyway…"

"There is no _thing_ with Malfoy," Harry muttered into his hands. The press had been dispersed, thankfully, and he and Ron were left huddled together against the hoarding surrounding the pitch. "You saw. Everyone saw! He couldn't get away fast enough."

"Mate," Ron said again, comfortingly. 

"I know," Harry sighed.

* * *

Harry trudged towards the changing rooms, through the empty corridors that still hummed with the memory of the cheers and hoots of the onlookers.

Harry needed a long hot shower, a stiff drink, and a quick but thorough _Obliviate_, in that order. He was sweat-rimed and windswept from the match, though the recurrent hot sweep of humiliation felt worse than the physical discomfort, and that wasn't going to come out under the showerhead.

He kicked through the changing room doors morosely, and shoved his broom into a corner with a careless clang. Plenty more where that came from. 

He chucked his glasses on the bench, kicked his boots off, and started tugging his fitted Quidditch jersey over his head as he moved towards the shower room. The jersey caught on the pads of his gauntlets as he attempted to wrench it off, so it he had a panicky moment of standing with his head wedged somewhere deep in the tangled fabric of his top, struggling to free himself, while becoming increasingly aware that (of course, because it was just that sort of fucker of a day) there was someone else in the shower already.

As he walked into the shower room, he managed to extract himself from his jersey with entirely more effort than he would have thought necessary, taking it as slowly as possible to put off the inevitable moment of confrontation. Because it was definitely Malfoy, Harry could smell the weirdly enticing almondy notes of whatever he used to wash his stupid lovely hair and stupid fit body.

And speaking of. There Malfoy was, standing in the very closest shower cubicle, looking as much as if he'd like to drown himself in there as Harry felt. He had obviously been in there some time—the smooth expanse of his chest was mottled pink from the heat, and his hair was flattened to the fine bones of his skull by the caress of the water. He had taken his eyepatch off, and the scar was a vivid confrontation against the creamy sheen of his skin. Droplets were gathering and rolling over the shifting muscles of his stomach, collecting in the coils of hair at his navel and leading down to an area that Harry was absolutely, positively not looking at. Not even for a quick glance.

Malfoy himself was standing loose-limbed in the spray, looking awfully disdainful for someone so very naked. Harry could feel the kiss of rebounding water droplets pattering against his lips, and suddenly became vividly aware of how close he was to a wet and naked Malfoy. For his part, Malfoy's eyes dropped swiftly from Harry's face to his bare torso, following the line of dark hair that trailed through the deep V of Harry's stomach muscles and ran into his carelessly unlaced breeches. Suddenly and inexplicably, Malfoy flushed, the colour washing over the tops of his cheekbones in a distracting spread of pink.

It seemed to make him even more cross for some reason, and he spread his hands as if in supplication. "Of course, it _would_ be you. Come to humiliate me some more? We don't have a great track record when it comes to bathrooms, do we?"

He smiled at Harry's flinch, a cold small thing that didn't look right on his face. "What, Potter? I thought that's how things still are, between us. We hate each other, remember?"

Harry spoke carefully. This might be his only chance to apologise, and he wanted to do it properly, but in his mouth, words had a tendency to get muddled and lose their meaning.

"Hermione tells me that I'm not very good with change," he said hesitantly. "And I'm not always very good with people, either—I know that. It's not that I don't like you," and it was his turn to blush a bit, but seeing as they were both red-faced and avoiding each other's eyes, it didn't seem to matter. "I just had never allowed myself to think about the fact that I like you. Which I do. Like you, that is. I also have a tendency towards impulsive behaviour. And when I thought about fancying you, it seemed like a good idea to immediately show you that. With my mouth. It wasn't my wisest move, I can see that now."

Malfoy was laughing a tiny bit, quiet soft sounds of amusement that made Harry feel a bit warm and sort of pleased with himself. 

"I've never mistaken you for the temperate sort, Potter. I just wasn't expecting a bloody _declaration of intent_ in front of the world's media. And with tongues too, no less."

"I really am sorry, Malfoy. I've always been a bit stupid over you, I think."

Malfoy held his hand out, and when he got a hold of Harry's wrist he gave it a hard tug, so that Harry was pressed against him under the slow lap of the water. 

"You are very stupid, Potter. But that's okay. I'm used to it. You're also very much overdressed for a shower."

Harry shoved his Quidditch breeches down so fast that he nearly toppled out of the shower cubicle, and Malfoy sniggered altogether too hard at that, so then, as payback, Harry spent quite some time with his thigh shoved in between Malfoy's legs, and his chest a possessive press against Malfoy's, as he painstakingly started to unlace his leather gauntlet using his teeth. He had just gotten it loose enough to begin to work it off, but Malfoy stopped him with a firm hand and a groan he couldn't quite keep in. So it appeared that Malfoy liked the whole leather thing, and all of a sudden it seemed much more important to work out what else Malfoy might like, and then do it, quite thoroughly. 

It turned out that Malfoy liked most things: Harry's mouth moving in a dirty hot slide over his; Harry's glove-clad hand clutching at his throat with just an edge of threat in the force of the grip; the greedy tug of Harry's teeth at his nipples; Harry licking a reverent trail over the angry scar that slashed across his left eye socket.

"You're beautiful," Harry murmured, his voice a low croon of intimacy and desire and that blasted fondness that always crept in whenever he spoke to or about Malfoy, these days. 

"It's just a scar, Potter," Malfoy said snidely (though then Harry let his hand drop to wrap around the hard length of Malfoy's cock, and as Malfoy watched the swelling bead of his own precome ripple and spill down the leather gauntlet, his tone became less snide and more desperate. Which was an interesting tip to remember for the future, Harry thought to himself). 

"They're all just scars, Malfoy," Harry replied. "And at least yours makes you look like a sexy pirate."

At which Malfoy looked simultaneously affronted and intrigued, before apparently deciding it wasn't worth discussing any further, and manoeuvring Harry against the wall so he had something to lean against while Malfoy sucked his cock in such an efficient yet filthy manner that Harry would _definitely_ have fallen over without it. 

* * *

Afterwards, when they were dry and dressed and languid with a bone-deep sense of satisfaction (and the sight of a mouth-shaped mark on Malfoy's throat had Harry wondering how soon was too soon to go again), Harry saw a familiar sight in the broom rack on the far side of the room. It was his Opaleye—the deluxe edition, complete with hand-shaped ergonomic leather seat, glitter tail twigs, and custom pearlescent sealant. 

Beside him, Malfoy was smiling in that mischievous, distracting, glowy way he did these days. 

"Malfoy? Why are you flying my Opaleye? The broom you told the entire readership of _Which Broomstick?_ was timid? _One-dimensional_? You cheeky fucker."

Malfoy had the grace to look abashed at that. 

"Well, Potter, what you saw was the proof printing of the edition. We run off fifty copies in the Digemino machine so it can be proof-read and checked for placement errors, and so on. As I perused it, it struck me that I may have been a tad unfair in my review. Perhaps I focused too much on the negative aspects and didn't give adequate attention to the broom's good points." He looked a bit shifty. "I wrote it last Saturday night, after two Firewhiskies and an argument with a selfish prat in the pub. So I've amended the review slightly for the print run proper."

He grimaced at Harry's crow of triumph, and continued in a lofty tone, "_Slightly_, Potter, only slightly. It's still just a light city broom, and I'm right about the sealant being slippery, you mark my words. But it's a gorgeous little thing nonetheless." He patted the frame fondly. "_And_ it matches my eye."

Then it was Harry's turn to look shifty, because of course he had personally spelled the colour magic into the sealant, and he may have been slightly distracted by thoughts of Malfoy's stupid face while he worked on the review model he knew he was sending in to _Which Broomstick?_

To cover up, he hauled Malfoy in with a tug at his long hair, and it was only when he had Malfoy gasping and pliant under his hands that he deemed it safe to stop. 

"You're going to be like this, then, are you?" Malfoy asked, but he sounded quite pleased about it overall.

Nevertheless, Harry replied seriously, because he needed Malfoy to know what he was getting into. 

"I think I am, actually. Is that okay with you?"

Malfoy smiled, and grabbed the Opaleye. 

"Come on, Potter. Let me give you a ride."

**Author's Note:**

> @tackytigerfic on Tumblr - please come and say hello!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [( a feverish weight )](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945883) by [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney)


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